Deadly Sins
by lionesseyes13
Summary: Being in the Own brings out the worst-and the best-in Lerant of Eldorne. A series of vignettes based on the Seven Deadly Sins.
1. Chapter 1

"_Oh, pity the poor glutton  
Whose troubles all begin  
In struggling on and on to turn  
What's out into what's in."  
―Walter de la Mare_

_**Gluttony**_

If any respectable military commander—the kind Lerant of Eldorne had always dreamed would make his life miserable on the battlefield—could see him now, gulping down his ninth tankard of ale at one of Corus' seedier taverns, they would have ordered him to be flayed within an inch of his life, or to be discharged in disgrace, but Lerant didn't need to worry about that happening to him. He was already condemned—found guilty without a court martial of his aunt's treason—and sentenced to the shame of a life of rejection from all forms of military service. His blood, even when untainted by alcohol, had been seen as too rotten even for positions that were open to commoners, and his family's name was such mud with the rest of the realm's nobility that his abilities were at best irrelevant and at worst sullied.

Gesturing curtly for the serving maid to refill his tankard as she squeezed past him with a pitcher of ale for the raucous and intoxicated cluster of young men at the table behind him, Lerant thought bitterly that if King Jonathan was trying to drive him to treason, he was doing a wonderful job. If Lerant couldn't use his skills and his temper for the realm, he would be driven by his frustrated desire to use his abilities and his outraged pride against Crown and country. The Eldorne line was fiery with lust and greed; that blaze could be flamed for the Contes or against them, but it could never be quashed, as King Jonathan and his military commanders might learn the hard way if they continued to try to stifle Lerant's flame.

In his own way, Lerant was as much of a glutton as his aunt Delia, and ale would only satisfy him for so long. Eventually he would have to give into the urge to actually _do_ something to justify the terrible verdict of guilt that had been pronounced against him since the unlucky day of his birth.

The serving maid had refilled his tankard, so he raised it in a toast to this bitter conclusion. Then, he quaffed down a quarter of the glass in one chug. The speed at which he drank made it impossible to taste the ale, but, given its smell and the murky condition all the glasses in the tavern were in, he figured that it was more a beverage to gag over than savor. It was a drink meant for gutter scum, so it did not aspire to taste better than filth.

Lerant's tankard was half empty and his perception of the world was starting to split into several alternative planes of reality when he was joined by a giant of a man that even his skewed vision could recognize as Lord Raoul of Goldenlake.

"Thought you gave up drinking," muttered Lerant, slurring the words, and surprised by how long they took not only to appear as ideas in his head, but also to emerge from his mouth as incorrectly pronounced syllables.

"I have. I came to see you, not to sample this establishment's fine selection of ale." Cheerily, Lord Raoul raised a cup of water that looked like it had been drawn from a swamp in a salute to Lerant. "Palace gossip had it that you were here, and I figured that I would check here first if only to prove the wagging tongues wrong."

"You found me." Lerant's lip curled, as he waited for the latest session of mockery to begin in earnest. It was difficult being the court laughingstock, because the hours were random.

"I've come to offer you a place in the Own as my standard-bearer," said Lord Raoul, smiling slightly. "Now that Austin has tied the knot with his sweetheart, I need some other young warrior to take his place, and I'd be delighted if you took the job."

Lerant's eyes narrowed. If this was a joke—and it had to be, because the events of the past few days had provided ample evidence that even the realm's worst commanders wanted nothing to do with the son of a line tainted by treason—it wasn't a funny one. At least, it wasn't for him.

He wished fervently that the courtiers would go back to laughing at the jesters they paid to amuse them, so he could slink home with his tail between his legs like the beaten dog he was. Such high class individuals should have the good breeding to stop hitting a wounded man, but, instead, they sought him out at taverns where he was trying to drink away his sorrows, offering him false positions apparently for the sole purpose of discovering if he was wasted enough to accept. Then, if he was, they could have the pleasure of turning him down spitefully and gossiping about it with their vulture friends later. Well, Lerant wasn't going to let them pick at his carcass. When they swooped to take a bite out of him, he would claw at them viciously with his sharp talons, because he might have fallen but he was still dangerous.

"Nice prank, but you need to work on your delivery." Lerant twisted his lips into a contemptuous sneer when really he couldn't decide whether he wanted to punch the grin off Raoul's face or bury his head in his hands because there would never be a time when he wouldn't have to be ashamed of his birth. Being related to a traitor was worse than being related to a peasant in the court of public opinion, which made all the most important rulings in the country. "Got to be more deadpan if you want me to believe you're serious, so your joke fell flat on its face, but we've got to appreciate your nerve and what you've done for the sport of petty jokes everywhere."

Now that was a wonderfully cutting refusal, and Lerant would know, after hearing so many over the past couple of endless days that had piled shame and misery on top of embarrassment and disappointment. It had the perfect mix of exaggerated sympathy, faux politeness, and genuine scoffing. An Eldorne could always muster a scathing comeback, and, even drunk, Lerant's wits were more about him than many young noblemen's were. He might have looked like easy prey, but he wasn't—not even for the Commander of the King's Own. In a war of wits, if not on the battlefield, Lerant of Eldorne could match the best and have a fighting chance, or that was what the blood pounding through his eardrums tried to assure him.

"I'm serious. I never make an offer if I have no intention of keeping my side of the bargain." Lord Raoul arched an eyebrow. "The question becomes are _you _serious about a military career? Because that's the only thing we're serious about in the Own; everything else can be a good laugh."

"I'm an Eldorne." Lerant cocked his head, and immediately wished that he hadn't made this movement when dizziness and nausea swept through him in a tidal wave. Before Aunt Delia had disgraced the family with her treason, a Goldenlake might have been interested in working with an Eldorne, but now not even the lowliest noble families were about to stick their necks out on behalf of an Eldorne. A bad reputation was more catching than many diseases, after all, and it was so much easier to fall than to rise at court. "You risk the king's displeasure by associating with me. A clever advocate might even find a way to implicate you for treasure just for offering me a position in the Own without royal approval."

"A clever advocate can turn anything into treason." Lord Raoul waved a dismissive hand, and Lerant supposed that being able to presume on King Jonathan's friendship was one of the perks of being a close companion of his since childhood. Some people were placed so highly that they couldn't even think of falling when stooping over to pick up the lowly, but surely Aunt Delia, who had once had Jonathan wrapped around her finger like a ring, must have once been as confident of Jonathan of Conte's affection, and now she was locked for life in a dungeon. Aunt Delia was proof that anyone could aspire too high and presume too much on the love of royalty. "It's one of the dangers of living in a society governed by the rule of law. If His Majesty wants to chop off my head, he has about a hundred other reasons to do so by now, so I see nothing wrong with giving him another. Anyway, I don't think the king will be as upset by your military career as many have assumed. He's the pragmatic type of ruler—knows that it is wiser to have a good warrior in your army rather than outside it, and understand that something dangerous happens to the soul of a man who wants to achieve greatness but is denied the chance to attain it. He'd prefer to have you as an ally than an enemy, and so would I, Lerant."

Lerant swallowed hard. He was so used to being strong in the face of rejection that he found it hard to be anything but weak in the wake of acceptance. Everyone who looked at him seemed only to see his aunt's terrible treason, but now this commander had truly looked at him, seeing that he was dangerous and ambitious yet also not failing to miss his potential as a loyal and courageous ally.

"I accept your offer, my lord, and I will serve as your standard bearer to the best of my abilities," said Lerant once he was confident that his voice wouldn't shake. He lifted his chin and tried to make it clear that he knew how the laws of fealty worked: your lord stuck his neck out for you, and you defended him to the death; you had a sharp tongue and a sharper sword but you only wielded them against his enemies and never against him; he offered you a chance to succeed and you did not insult his faith in you by failing. Honor—the only true glory—was determined by how well you fulfilled those duties. To fail your lord was to fail yourself. To betray your lord was to abandon yourself. To disrespect your lord was to disgrace yourself. It was as simple and as complicated as that.

"I don't doubt it. You can begin training with the boys tomorrow." Lord Raoul rose, and, with a clap on Lerant's shoulder as he passed en route to the door, exited the tavern.

Drinking alone again, Lerant scowled and shoved his tankard away. If he drank anymore, he would be stumbling like a deranged grandmother around the practice courts tomorrow, and Lord Raoul deserved to have a standard-bearer who wasn't a drunkard. Now that he could contribute to Tortall in a nobler way than supporting taverns, he should pay and try to recover from his evening of dabbling in debauchery.


	2. Chapter 2

_"I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine."—_**Jane Austen, **_Pride and Prejudice_

**_Pride_**

As far as Lerant was concerned, the novelty of being a member of the Own—and being allowed to train with other soldiers devoted to fighting for the realm—hadn't worn off yet. He hoped it never did and that he never came to take morning practice sessions with some of the country's best warriors for granted, but, an instant later, he realized that he had made the mistake of allowing himself to get distracted in a fight. All it took for this to dawn on him, he told himself sardonically, was the sting of a practice sword slicing into his forearm.

"Got you," his opponent Edsel of Groten remarked, grinning as he launched another attack.

Returning his awareness completely to the duel, Lerant somersaulted backward, and then twisted to assault Edsel from the left, cutting off the hem of Edsel's tunic.

"Missed me by a league," taunted Edsel, his sky eyes glinting a challenge as surely as iron, dancing a retreat.

His lips tightening determinedly, Lerant thought that his foe might have been having fun, but he was serious. Reversing swiftly, he ducked and rushed at his enemy. Pleasure welled up inside him when Edsel almost stumbled in surprise.

Taking advantage of his opponent's unbalance, Lerant decided to dictate the pace of the battle, rather than leave that to Edsel. He attacked aggressively, and then stepped back to lure the other young man forward. When Edsel moved into his trap, Lerant landed a blow on Edsel's arm in revenge for the cut on his forearm. It was strike for strike and blood for blood now. Pride was satisfied, but honor demanded nothing less than Edsel's surrender.

Edsel gasped in pain when Lerant's weapon pierced his skin, and his grip slackened on his own sword. Lerant took advantage of this to leap forward and lightly touch Edsel's neck with his weapon. "Yield or lose your head," he said, acting like this were a real duel instead of practice bout because it had become painfully real to him—and to his pride—the second a drop of his blood had been shed.

"I yield." Edsel raised his palms in surrender, and Lerant lowered his weapon.

As they crossed to the other end of the yard to return their practice weapons to the barrel, Edsel said in a voice pitched loudly enough for all the men sparring nearby to hear even over the clash of blades, "You're a fine one to talk about losing heads, though, Eldorne, given your family history of disgrace and treason."

"And you're a walking advertisement for the wonders of anti-pregnancy charms," retorted Lerant, shoving his practice sword back into the keg and resisting the temptation to tear Edsel to ribbons with it.

"Your whole degenerate line could be an advertisement for the adage that thoughts of regicide don't pay." Edsel thrust his weapon into the hogshead with a fervor that suggested he would have been happy to jab it through Lerant's chest instead.

"At least my family gets thoughts." Lerant's lips twisted into a sneer. "Everyone knows that if a thought dares to cross a Groten's mind, it is in for a long, lonely journey."

"There's that famous Eldorne charm that everyone loves. Remember that if only your dear aunt Delia had remembered to eat some of her makeup, she might have been beautiful on the inside." With a final smirk, Edsel stalked off the practice court, doubtlessly to inflict the joy of his presence and opinions upon other fortunate individuals.

"I worship the ground that awaits your corpse," muttered Lerant, giving an exaggerated bow toward Edsel's retreating figure.

"Don't get your feathers too much into a flap." Squinting into the sunlight to see who had spoken to him, Lerant found himself gazing into the tanned features of a Bazhir with a corporal's insignia. "Edsel is always sensitive about losing, especially to a newcomer. He didn't win the race with his twin brother to come into the world first, and he has been smarting from that defeat ever since. Every time he loses, it reminds him the indignity of being born to an old noble family a few minutes too late to inherit anything worthwhile. But he isn't a bad person. Lord Raoul says that he is the least stiff Groten you're likely to meet."

"I could more easily forgive his pride if he didn't offend mine." Lerant snorted, not sure whether the noise was more of a commentary on his ego or Edsel's.

"My ancestors have been saying that before duels to the death for centuries." The Bazhir's dark eyes gleamed. "Don't look so surprised now. You must know that even though we look different on the outside, deep inside us, we aren't so different at all. Differences are always only skin deep. I've seen enough blood to know that it all looks the same, no matter how much people make a fuss over it."

Recognizing that this Bazhir, a member of a proud people feared and reviled by northerners for generations, had to be as much an outcast and unwelcome ally to most of the realm's warriors as Lerant himself was, Lerant commented, "I bet you have to put up with a lot of flak because of your ancestry, too."

"I don't worry about such people, because what do they know?" The Bazhir shrugged. "They're wrong, and either they'll admit that when I prove them so, or they won't because they don't trust what they can't explain. Whatever they end up believing, it's no skin off my nose. It's just my duty to remember that in the Own, there is a special part that everybody—even those I don't particularly like—will play. "

Lerant wrinkled his nose. It was an insult to his pride to imagine himself working with Edsel in any meaningful way, but the Bazhir had a point, as much as it galled Lerant to accept it. An army had to be a united force comprised of soldiers who were willing to die for one another. When the world hurled the worst at them, they had to do their best to stand together. They needed to fight enemies, not each other.

Still, it would have been an even more terrible insult to Lerant's pride to admit that he was wrong to quarrel with Edsel over the honor of his family, so he only held out his hand for a shake, saying, "I'm Lerant. I hope I get a leading part in your little drama."

"I'm Qasim." The Bazhir corporal offered an enigmatic smile. "And the auditions are ongoing, so feel free to treat us all to a spontaneous soliloquy whenever the urge strikes you."


	3. Chapter 3

"_The tigers of wrath are stronger than the horses of instruction."—_**William Blake, **_Marriage of Heaven and Hell_

_**Wrath**_

In the soaring elms and oaks that encircled the banks of Lake Naxen, the birds chirped cheerily. Their music, whistling through the breeze that cooled the heat of the June sun beating on his cheeks, caused Lerant to hum idly under his breath. He wasn't sure of the tune—it was probably an amalgamation of the ballads he had learned from his months of soldiering with the Own—but the joy that came from making and hearing music filled him with peace. His serenity was such that he could almost pretend that he was walking alone by the lakeside, instead of wending his way through the lanes of tents that made up the tournament the king had prodded Lord Raoul into attending.

Lord Raoul had channeled his frustration with being forced to go to the tournament by unseating a handful of knights who had been unwise enough to challenge him in the jousting lists. Now, Lerant was returning to Raoul's tent with a reply to the knight commander's letter to King Jonathan requesting an exemption from tonight's banquet on the grounds of exhaustion and a headache tucked securely in his breeches' pocket. Lerant doubted that Lord Raoul would be happy with the response to his request, but right now Lerant was at peace, anyway.

As often happened when Lerant was at his most serene, some moron appeared, as if by some ironic decree of the Trickster god, to ruin his tranquility.

"Eldorne," drawled a florid and obese man, Sir Bram of Rosemark, whom Raoul had unhorsed earlier that day and who was presently lounging in the shade of a tent's extended flap.

Adrenaline surging in his veins, Lerant stopped like a rabbit sensing an oncoming predator, because, over years of mockery, he had discovered that when people made his family name sound like a disease rather than a lineage, and an insult instead of an address, trouble loomed overhead like a thundercloud.

"Can I help you avoid an aneurysm, sir?" Lerant arched an eyebrow and fought the overwhelming urge to kick Bram in his rotund stomach, but qualms about hitting a man while he was down kept his violent compulsion in check. "It looks like you're on the verge of one."

"You look like a snake in the grass," snapped Bram, his cheeks crimson bricks, as he shoved himself to his feet.

"Taunts about my aunt never get old." Lerant's jaw clenched, as his hands, knuckles cracking menacingly, balled. "They're just so original."

"Why don't you tell me something new, cur?" hissed Bram, taking a step closer and raising his fists in a clear threat. "How many times has Lord Raoul pushed his lance into you, then?"

"Never, which is about a dozen less times than he has unseated you," Lerant retorted. He was trembling with rage, but he was going to pretend to be oblivious to the innuendo laced into Bram's words—and the derisively suggestive manner in which his eyes roved along Lerant's body—until it was obvious that Lord Raoul's honor was imperiled. At that point, he would strike decisively and mercilessly on his own behalf and on his lord's. Honor and justice would be satisfied in one fell swoop—or several swift punches, to be more accurate.

"An Eldorne would lie, because that's part of being a good whore." Bram leered, practically, as far as Lerant was concerned, begging for a quick punch to the groin or to his fat gut. "The only way they can rise in society is by selling themselves like the prostitutes they are. Pity for Goldenlake, though, that you aren't as attractive as your slut of an aunt."

"But I can still be as much of a kracken as she is." Fast as lightning, Lerant thrust his first into the man's groin. Then, while Bram was clutching his privates in agony, Lerant took advantage of his bent posture to launch a flurry of blows to the man's face, hitting the eyes, ears, and nose. "How many tentacles do you see?"

"Bastard," Bram spat, shooting a wad of blood and saliva into Lerant's eyes.

Reflexively, Lerant wiped the disgusting mixture out of his eyes, but, while he was occupied by cleaning his vision, a fist collided solidly with his jaw. Both his lips cracked in an explosion of pain, and the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.

Mimicking his enemy's tactic, Lerant spat the blood into Bram's face. Then, while the man was wiping it away with a sleeve, he punched Bram soundly on the lips, thinking that bruised and bloody lips would prevent Bram from spreading any calumnies about Lord Raoul or Lerant for quite some time.

With a final blow to his opponent's stomach, Lerant disengaged from the fight, continuing down the lane and calling over his shoulder, "I hope that taught you some manners. If not, I could always cut your tongue out with my sword next time you find it too difficult to control your mouth."

Bram might have responded scathingly to this insolent declaration, but Lerant's blood was pounding too loudly for him to hear any retort. The whole way back to Lord Raoul's tent, he heard nothing, not even the chirping of the birds that had brought him such peace earlier.

"Ah, my messenger returns," remarked Lord Raoul, glancing up from a stack of reports he was reviewing. Catching sight of Lerant's bloody lips, he sighed and shook his head. "I'm not impressed by the new look, Lerant, however popular it may be among young ruffians."

"Sir Bram of Rosemark looks even worse than I do." Lerant shrugged. "Fashion is relative and all that, sir."

"Lerant, must you really punch everyone who insults you into next year?" Raoul's tone was the exaggeratedly patient tone he adopted whenever he despaired of correcting a particular flaw in one of his soldiers but still felt the need to address it. Lerant had heard it several times now: _"Dom, must you find it amusing to put itching powder in Wolset's sleeping mat?" _or _"Qasim, must you always eat any fruit in reach?" _

"Sir Bram heavily implied that you forced me into bed with you." Lerant could feel his ears and cheeks flaming like kindling. "You would have tried to teach his thick self some manners with a good thump, too, if you could have heard him running his mouth."

"Once, when I was a young hothead, I might have," Lord Raoul answered wryly. "Now that I'm older, calmer, and we can only hope wiser, I wouldn't waste my energy. Making people who challenge my jousting abilities fly like little birdies is fun, but having blood from a fistfight dripping out of my lips or nostrils isn't."

"I didn't get into the fight for fun." Miffed that Raoul would believe him so petty, Lerant folded his arms across his chest. "I thrashed Bram to prove that he was as wrong as snow in July."

"Hence the waste of energy, lad," Raoul explained, all dryness. "You can't convince somebody who is determined to invent nasty lies about you to see the truth no matter how hard you hit them."

"Maybe not." Lerant lifted his chin in defiance. "That doesn't mean I have to let them spread those nasty lies without trying to stop them or punish them for insulting my honor."

"Those who matter won't believe those lies, and those who believe those lies don't matter," said Raoul, as though a wounded honor could be healed so simply.

"Easy for you to say, sir." Lerant snorted. "You aren't the one being called a whore."

"No, I was apparently the one accused of being a rapist who preys on the young men in my charge." Lord Raoul made a droll face. "That is quite an honor and would give me the moral high ground with even the noblest of heroes."

"I don't want to be called a whore, and I don't want you to be called a rapist." Angrily, Lerant shook his head and wondered why the knight commander of the Own couldn't understand the basic laws of fealty and honor that governed this realm. "I don't want to be put to shame, and I don't want you to be disgraced, either, because you're my lord. I'm supposed to defend your honor as if it were my own, and if that means punching a rude knight, I'm going to do just that, sir."

"As far as I can see, the shame and dishonor are all on Sir Bram's side." Lord Raoul reached out to squeeze Lerant's shoulder. "Either he is guilty of speaking what he knows to be a lie about us sleeping together, or, even worse, he is guilty of blaming someone he believes to be a victim for being abused. But I am grateful for your courage and loyalty in defending my honor, Lerant."

"Well, you might not be so grateful once you've read the king's reply to your request." Lerant pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to Raoul. "I'm afraid he wasn't impressed by what he said was your feigned illness, so he insists on your presence this evening, or he will make sure that you spend next Midwinter dining with Tortall's most persistent match-making mothers."

"Banquets and match-making mothers." Morosely, Raoul buried his forehead in his palms. "What a dreadful fate. I should re-write the bylaws of the Own so that every court-martial offense is punished with a sentence of feasts and mothers who want to guarantee a good marriage for their daughters."

"The Own is full of lady-loving bachelors." Lerant smirked. "That would do far more to encourage bad behavior than to discourage it, sir."

"Bah. You are full of bad news today, scamp." Raoul lobbed King Jonathan's letter at Lerant, who managed to catch it just before it slammed into his ear. "Come back with better news next time."

"Like the name of the lovely, eligible heiress Master Oakbridge is going to seat you with tonight?" asked Lerant, eyes agleam with mischief.

"Insubordinate rascal." Raoul chuckled. "I should have you brought up with a court-martial."

"Will I be sentenced to eat with all kinds of marriageable ladies?" Lerant wanted to know, utterly unfazed by this good-natured threat.

"If it will get you out of my hair, then yes." Raoul waved his hand in an expansive gesture of dismissal. "Now run along and bother Dom or someone else equally insufferable."


	4. Chapter 4

"_There is a fine line between loving life and being greedy for it."—Maya Angelou_

_**Greed**_

A cold, ethereal mist covered the crests and valleys of the Tirragen hills that were infested with bandits this March. The wretched cowards, who were hiding behind boulders that lurked like giant heads on the slope above Lerant's position by his lord, slinging mud and rocks and firing a steady stream of arrows.

Drawing his finger back on his own bowstring until it was taut with lethal energy, Lerant entertained a vivid fantasy of flushing the villains out of their concealment. Then, through the tendrils of fog, his sword would lock with each thief's one at a time. His blade would cut through the thick, damp air that was already seeping into his lungs and probably rusting his armor, and, after a flurry of attacks and parries, every one of his opponents would lie dead. Lerant would be a hero.

Everybody in the realm would know his name, instead of Aunt Delia's, and every commander of every armed forces unit that had dared to refuse Lerant entry would feel the same humiliation of rejection that he had. All of them would come to him, inviting and practically pleading with him to join their troops, and, smiling haughtily, he would explain that Raoul was his lord—the man who was his to serve and defend as long as energy filled his muscles. The commanders would clear their throats, beam just as falsely into his face, and assure him that they understood, of course. Then, finally, Lerant would have the satisfaction of knowing that they at last understood how it felt to struggle to maintain one's composure when one had already lost all dignity.

Lerant blamed this wistful daydream for distracting him from the fight where he should have been focused only on protecting his lord's life with his sweat and blood. That had to be the only reason he hadn't seen the arrow piercing through the mist toward Lord Raoul, who was twisted in his saddle, shouting an order to Dom's squad, stationed behind them in a barely visible array. Lerant wanted to call out a warning, but his mind told him he didn't have time for that, while his body spurred his horse into a leap directly in front of Lord Raoul on an intercept course with the oncoming arrow.

The moment swung out of control into an alternate plane of reality in which time slowed. He could see the arrow speeding toward him, and he got a cold, sick feeling deep in his intestines that meant that something was about to happen that would change him, even though he didn't want it to, and he couldn't stop it. Now, there would be a before and an after, a was and a will be, and he would never again be the same person as he was in this second.

He knew with a pain that lanced into his heart like an arrow that he would not have time to move out of its path now. If he was lucky, something he had never been, it would ricochet off his armor and land uselessly in the mud puddles. If he wasn't—a far more likely prospect—it would slice through a chink or groove in his armor, tearing into his flesh and lodging there until it was yanked out to do at least as much damage leaving as it had upon arrival.

He gritted his teeth to brace himself for an impact that could bring an infection more deadly than many injuries and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the arrow whizzing toward him. Honor and duty had already been satisfied by his throwing himself in the path of the arrow aimed at his lord. He didn't have to watch—in slow motion, especially—his own maiming or death.

As if this thought had speeded up whatever remained of his life once again, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. Tears leaked from the cracks between his eyelids. He wanted to scream or curse, but he couldn't find the words or the breath He hadn't known that blinding, debilitating pain like this truly existed. He should have been pulling the arrow from his shoulder, but he was so dizzy that he feared any sudden movement would make him faint out of his saddle. The Own still hadn't stopped teasing Raoul for falling out of the saddle after falling asleep inside of it, and Lerant would still die before he allowed himself to become fodder for mockery in the only armed force that would accept him into their ranks.

He could feel someone racing forward to support his back, ensuring he wouldn't suffer the pain of falling out of his saddle onto the unsympathetic ground. Fingers reached out to grasp the arrow jutting from Lerant's shoulder, and, in a dim daze, he stared into Dom's eyes, which had suddenly gone grimmer than Lerant had imagined that they could possibly have.

"Stay still," Dom ordered in his best calm sergeant voice. "My uncle is the Crown's chief healer."

"That doesn't mean you know the difference between my knee and elbow," growled Lerant, wishing that this simple sentence didn't sap him of nearly all his strength.

"Save your breath, and brace yourself, because when I count to ten, I'm removing this arrow." Dom's grip on the arrow tightened, so that his knuckles gleamed white even against the pale fog. "Now," he went on casually, as though he were discussing tonight's dinner, "this procedure is what I like to call reduction, because it reduces the pain by—_ten_!"

The last word came out as loud as a battle cry, and Lerant felt a tug on his shoulder as the arrow was ripped out of his flesh. His muscle screamed in strain, and blood trickled from the groove on his armor. Mist started to invade his mind, probably infiltrating his body through his nose and mouth. He managed to choke out, "For a smug idiot, you aren't a bad healer, but your bedside manner needs a bit of improvement—arrows are more compassionate than you."

Then, the fog in his head swallowed his whole brain, and he could only shut his eyes, slumping, unconscious and mouth agape, against Dom. Everything, even his triumph over keeping his lord safe from the bandits, slipped into a numb blackness from which he doubted he would ever emerge.


	5. Chapter 5

"_Thou seest how sloth wastes the sluggish body, as water is corrupted unless it moves."—Ovid_

_**Sloth**_

Inside Lerant's head, everything was an obsidian blackness as dark as the universe must have been before the moon and stars were called into being by the gods. He could feel nothing—not even pain—just as he could see nothing. Perhaps he had perished along with his senses, but if he was dead, he was supposed to see a light that would guide him to his judgment—probably a circle of torment reserved for wrathful and greedy creatures as vile as himself—in Mithros' court. As if the thought of light had sprung it into existence, a small flame flared in his brain, igniting the pain not only in his shoulder but in the rest of his body. Quickly, it grew larger, as the pain became ever fiercer. In an effort to escape the yellow ball burning as hot as a July sun inside his throbbing head, he opened his eyes with a dull moan.

Turning his neck first to the left and then to the right, a gesture that made his shoulder hurt so intensely that he fervently wished that Dom had removed it along with the arrow, Lerant saw that he was resting on a cot in the infirmary tent.

"You're awake," commented Lord Raoul, who had been sitting just out of Lerant's line of vision, scooting his stool closer to the side of Lerant's cot

"Tell me something I didn't know, sir." Lerant snorted, trying to prop himself upright against his pillows and collapsing in defeat when this maneuver put too much strain on his wounded shoulder.

"Glad to see that your tongue—and your whole head—are quite unharmed," Lord Raoul remarked wryly, helping Lerant recline against the pillows with firm but gentle hands. "How dod you feel?"

"Like I was just dragged through a rosebush backward," muttered Lerant, rubbing at the bandages on his shoulder that were already starting to itch.

"The healers said not to mess with those, or else they'll wrap your hands, too, to make you behave," Lord Raoul informed him, and, scowling, Lerant stopped itching at the bandages suffocating his shoulder.

"I never noticed how much I breathed out of my arms before," griped Lerant, sighing. "What am I going to do while I recover from my injury if not relieve my skin and annoy my healers by tearing out my bandages?"

"Have an orange." Raoul took an orange the color of a tigerlily from a porcelain bowl on the nightstand beside Lerant's cot. As he dropped the fruit into Lerant's palm, he added, "I bought them for you from the merchant Qasim, our fruit connoisseur, says sells the best fruit in town. They're fresh from Carthak, apparently."

"Qasim can always find the best fruit vendor for leagues around." Smiling slightly, Lerant peeled his orange and popped the first wedge into his mouth. A citrus flavor flooded his tongue, overwhelming his tastebuds, and traveling up into his nostrils with the force of a pungent childhood memory. The last time he had peeled and bitten into a juicy orange like this was his fifth Midwinter, because his family could rarely afford luxuries like fresh oranges.

Perhaps it was the strength of this remembered joy that made him ask, "Sir, did you have oranges often when you were young?"

"No." Lord Raoul's coal eyes glittered with mischief. "When I was young, we didn't have oranges, because they hadn't been invented yet. Those were dark, miserable days, Lerant, when pages had to run up the hill both ways to get to training and back, all the while being struck repeatedly with staffs by our teachers. That abuse was supposed to toughen us, but mostly it just gave us splinters, so our sadistic trainers said we were a sorry, hopeless bunch."

"And sad music swelled from the world's smallest violin that was sounding a sweet lament just for you, sir" Smirking slyly, Lerant devoured another wedge of orange.

"Naturally." Lord Raoul chuckled. "That's the reason I brutalize my own men in training, and they spend the rest of their stint in the Own longing to disembowel me."

"You never mistreat us." Lerant shook his head so fiercely that pain speared through his shoulder. Bravely, he ignored the agony and continued, "You always act like you can see what's greatest in us, and that, in turn, brings out the best in us. That's why we're willing to fight and die for you. That's what makes you a good commander."

"Being a good commander, Lerant, is about saving as many people as possible, not about getting them to die loyally for you." Raoul swatted Lerant's knee lightly. "I'm happy you didn't go so far as to actually die for me, lad. I have a list of boys I lost, and I'd rather not add you to it. Besides, it's more fun for you if you live to be rewarded for your courage."

"I don't want a reward." Lerant started to fold his arms stubbornly across his chest, but ceased almost immediately when his shoulder yelped in protest.

"You gave me all I ever needed—a chance to serve honorably—when you offered me a position as your standard-bearer, even though everybody else was willing to give me only contemptuous dismissals."

"I know I can't buy loyalty like yours, but let me try." Lord Raoul dumped a bag heavy with coins onto Lerant's lap. Holding up a finger, he said sternly, "Next time we're in Corus, spend every half penny on a gift for yourself or some pretty girl who strikes your fancy. That's an order."

Trying not to imagine how much gold and silver was in the bag that had just fallen quite literally into his lap, Lerant thought that the nobility of his birth might have ensured that he wasn't crass enough to request any reward for his service—even if he was poorer than many a merchant's son—but it also meant that he was gracious enough to be grateful when a present was thrust upon him.

"I have always wanted to buy something from Raven armory," Lerant whispered, ducking his head and already envisioning the marvelous dagger his new pile of money could purchase him. Whoever believed that money could not buy happiness had clearly never been so poor he had to eat his own pride every night and swallow his own bitter desires by day. "Thank you, my lord."

He was well aware that Lord Raoul preferred the less stuffy "sir" as an address , but now seemed like a moment for formalities.

"You're welcome. Now, I've got to go check that all our charming captured bandits are secure for this one way trip to the Corus gallows." Raoul rose. "Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?"

"Hand me another orange, please, sir." Lerant wanted to eat one more, and then drift back into the oblivion of sleep with its tanginess still lingering on his tongue like a secret.

"Lazybones." Raoul laughed, gave Lerant's hair an affectionate rub, and plopped the fruit into Lerant's palm "Enjoy your beauty sleep."

"Sloth is a virtue for those who are bedridden with injured shoulders." Lerant lifted his nose in the air as he peeled his second orange, imagining the refreshment it promised for his weary body and soul.


	6. Chapter 6

"_A show of envy is an insult to oneself."- __**Yevgeny Alexandrovich Yevtushenko**_

**Envy**

Lerant hoped that Lord Raoul hadn't heard any of his confrontation with Mindelan over her not ratting him out to Sergeant Osbern about the wine prank. He still couldn't bring himself to feel any gratitude toward her for not snitching on him, because he sensed that put him in her debt, which was just about the most humiliating position he could imagine. He almost wished that she had told Sergeant Osbern about his trick. Then he would have proof that she was a horrible person worthy of his loathing That, in turn, would allow him to wistfully contemplate disemboweling her without any sort of pangs of guilt in his own intestines. Nothing was worse than his jealousy and hatred of her eating his own heart while the shameful knowledge that the object of his detestation seemed to be a nice girl gnawed at his mind. Such was the torture he was enduring at the present, and, as always, happened when he believed that he had hit rock bottom, the boulder he had broken himself against turned into quicksand to suffocate him.

"Lerant," Lord Raoul said, walking toward him with an expression that indicated he had heard the scuffle outside of his bedroom door last night. "I'd like to have a word with you."

"Oh, now you want to talk, sir," mumbled Lerant, the bitter, sarcastic words reflexively spilling from his mouth, but it was only fair if he insulted Lord Raoul with his bluntness since Lord Raoul had slapped him in the face by taking on a squire—obviously implying that Lerant, inferior creature that he was, could not look out for him properly. That hurt far more than the arrow to the shoulder that he had taken to protect his lord. Lerant was willing to give everything in service to his lord, and his everything—his best—still wasn't good enough. That was why Lord Raoul had felt the need to bring in some girl to take Lerant's place.

"Yes, I want to talk now." Raoul arched an eyebrow in reproach. "And if you want to talk to me at any time, I hope you'll just ask for a word, instead of resorting to pranks like a rambunctious toddler to grab my attention."

"You know about me telling Mindelan to serve you wine." The blood pounding through Lerant's veins was blazing hotly enough that he didn't care about concealing his crime. Lord Raoul didn't deserve any loyalty if he couldn't respect all the sacrifices Lerant had already made on his behalf.

"Of course I do." Lord Raoul sighed. "If you want to keep your pranks a secret, you'll have to find a more private location to discuss them than right outside my door in the middle of the night."

"I told Mindelan to keep her voice down, sir." Crossing his arms defiantly, Lerant went on, "It's not my fault she was so cursed loud."

"You have a fiery temper, Lerant, and it's only made worse by your tendency to blame the wrong people for your problems." Lord Raoul shook his head. "I don't think that you're really angry at Kel."

"She's Kel already, is she?" Lerant's jaw clenched around the resentful remark. "Well, sir, you'd better not let her see us talking, or else she might get envious, thinking you haven't dumped me properly."

"I didn't dump you, lad." Lord Raoul's calm, reasonable tone infuriated Lerant more than a shout could have. "You're still my standard-bearer, aren't you?"

"That means less than rabbit dung when you've made it plain that I'm as useless at my job as a lifeboat with a gaping hole in the bottom," scoffed Lerant, unable to restrain himself from offering an accompanying eye roll. "Since you took a squire, everybody will think that I was so awful at serving you that you needed to call in an extra hand, because you never take a squire. That hurts and shames me, because I have always served you as faithfully as I knew how. I've went into battle beside you I've armed you and cleaned your horses. I've defended your honor from the insults of nobles. I've carried your messages. I've taken an arrow in the shoulder for you, and I still have the damn scar as evidence if you can stomach seeing it. I'm ready to die for you, and you don't even have the nerve to tell me to my face that I'm not good enough to serve you. You just stab me in the back by getting a squire to take my place and expect me to smile through the most painful insult to my honor that I've ever had in my life."

"My taking Kel as a squire is not an insult to you." Lord Raoul pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to hold onto his remaining patience. "We've had this conversation before, Lerant. It's not my fault that your ears and mind are too closed to allow you to listen."

"My memory must be going," commented Lerant in a deceptively silky tone, his gaze narrowing menacingly. "I don't remember that conversation at all, sir. What exactly did I say? Was it interesting? Intelligent? Ironic? Impudent?"

"You're certainly being impudent now," Lord Raoul informed him, all crispness.

"We never had this conversation before, sir," hissed Lerant, ignoring the warning that politeness would be appreciated "Never."

"That's because I don't need to explain my decision to take a squire to you," Lord Raoul answered without missing a beat. His eyes were blank, his expression frozen, and his voice so cold that Lerant couldn't prevent himself from shivering.

"I forgot you didn't have to explain decisions that hurt and insult me," retorted Lerant, recovering himself enough to shoot a withering glance at his lord. "I apologize, sir, for thinking that you'd abide by the rules of chivalry by honoring my faithful service, because, after all, I didn't even ask for any advancement—I just wanted to be treated with dignity as your standard-bearer, but, obviously, you didn't believe I deserved even that much honor."

"Not everything is about you." Lord Raoul's manner was as pointed as a honed sword. "I didn't choose to take Kel as my squire to insult you."

"I know that. You don't need to explain that to me." Lerant tried to act as though he couldn't feel the massive cavity in his chest where his heart should have been, where his heart had been ripped out, and where an acid ocean swallowed his whole world in agony. He looked at the man who was supposed to be his savior, and all he could see was what he had lost by placing his trust in Lord Raoul and joining the Own. "I understand that you only took her as squire because you pity her, just as you only asked me to be your standard-bearer because you felt sorry for me. Perhaps I should do her a favor and warn her that she'll be abandoned as soon as you find another outcast to adopt. You don't actually care about us. You only like to pat yourself on the back for all your supposed charity toward us, never mind that your compassion ends up hurting us, and your attempts to bring us honor just disgrace us."

"No." Raoul jerked backward as though he had been punched on the nose. "Lerant, no."

"Don't lie to me," snarled Lerant, more shrilly than he had intended, as the edges of his vision rippled scarlet and black, and the rage that dwelled inside him drew its breath to scream. "Leave me alone."

But Raoul wouldn't. Laying a hand on Lerant's shoulder, he insisted, "I don't pity you or Kel. Far from thinking either of you are pathetic, I believe both of you have a great deal of potential."

Lerant stared down at Raoul's plam on his shoulder as if it were a venomous spider, and shrugged, trying to dislodge it. "Don't lie to me, and don't touch me. Are you deaf, sir? I said '_leave me alone_._'_"

Still, Lord Raoul ignored him, because that was what he did: he gave orders; he never listened "You have to realize that."

All Lerant had to realize was that this man had betrayed and insulted him. Sickened, trembling on the brink of losing control completely, he reached out to pluck himself free of Raoul's grasping fingers, and then it all came back, a torrent of merciless, excruciating memory. The hills heavy with hidden thieves. The fog filled with flying arrows Raoul, an arrow moving through the mist, a heartbeat from death, and Lerant's shoulder—his wounded shoulder that had shed blood and flesh for his lord. As though the images were a trigger, as though remembering a thng were the same as reliving it, Lerant began to cry, and Lord Raoul held him as he wept.

"Don't do this to yourself, Lerant," Lord Raoul whispered, his words resounding like a battle cry in Lerant's head. "Let go of your envy and injured pride. Tell yourself as often as it takes that nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent, and that jealousy is an insult to yourself—a declaration that you aren't as good as someone else."

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, blaming you, and, well, just everything," muttered Lerant, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, and wishing that he could come up with better apologies for his angry, ambitious nature.

"And I'm sorry I didn't think to ask you this before I took Kel as my squire, but will you try to support me in my decision, Lerant, because I will have to deal with a lot of people attacking me about this choice?"

"I'll try," Lerant replied, biting his lip, and wondering what behavior his distinct blend of loyalty, envy, and wounded pride would result in over the course of Mindelan's squireship.


End file.
